


With Music Loud and Long

by Kernezelda



Category: A Demon For Midwinter - K. L. Noone
Genre: Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kernezelda/pseuds/Kernezelda
Summary: A night for rain, a night for love.Title and a few lines of dialogue from Samuel Taylor Coleridge'sKubla Khan.For Luninosity, whose brilliance and kindness make her one of the brightest lightson TumblrI know. I’m so glad to have met you and to know you still.For your birthday, I’ve written a little piece based on your ORIGINAL NOVEL, A Demon for Midwinter. I hope you enjoy it.Happy Birthday, dear Luni!





	With Music Loud and Long

Vanilla hazelnut lingered in the air, the cup half-emptied left plaintive on the nightstand. Justin sniffed appreciatively. He’d finish it later, but now…

He was a little tied up.

His lips parted with a gasp when Kris twisted fingers just _so_ : a move Justin had told him about earlier, and was reaping the benefits of that telling now. Kris lifted crinkling dark brown eyes from his task, smile widening when he caught Justin’s expression, delight and pleasure and black-pupiled arousal. Kris fed his own love and lust into Justin, a reverse succubus to Justin’s half-incubus nature. Justin laughed, arched his hips and closed his fingers tight around the blue and purple silk ropes binding his wrists to the headboard.

Kris licked a warm stripe along the smooth join of Justin’s hip, worked his lips and tongue across ginger curls to the silver-ringed base of Justin’s cock. He pressed a kiss there, then another, and kept at it, working his way up until Justin cried out and squirmed and thrashed with the sheer pleasure of it, until Kris had to press hands to hips, hold him down with a half-triumphant laugh of his own, shared the glory he felt in driving Justin out of his mind—and Kris thought he was too old, too worn to love and be loved by someone half his age. Justin caught that thought, on occasion, and did his best to drive _it_ out of Kris’ mind.

Sapphire silk sheets whickered in rippling sympathy, cool under bare skin, the duvet kicked to lonely solitude in a bright tumble at the foot of the bed. Through the bedroom windows, city lights from below the penthouse glittered, dashed pale neon colors across the ceiling, perfectly matching the bursts of sensation Kris’ talented tongue wrenched from Justin’s wet-tipped cock. Callused fingers moved in the same rhythm, and Justin strained to drag them even further inside.

Kris nipped. Lightly.

Justin froze, body thrumming with the _zing_ , sharp and bright through the haze of arousal and sensation.

“Sorry,” he managed, swallowing lust, voice dark with need. If not for the tightness of the ring round him… He squirmed again, raised up one thigh to caress Kris’ side in apology. His mouth fell open as the change in position shifted the way Kris’ fingers felt. Kris stilled, lifted himself with his other hand and leaned forward, eyes locking with Justin’s.

“Never apologize,” Kris said. Loose brown strands of sweat-damp hair drifted across Justin’s heated cheeks as Kris took Justin’s mouth in a deep and claiming kiss, lips and teeth and tongue—and no battle for dominance here, but loving give and take, flavored with hazelnut and a hint of Earl Grey. Kris didn’t forget his other fingers, either; Justin felt the curve of a grin when he whined into Kris’ mouth and pressed closer, wanting more, more.

When Kris finally drew back, Justin panted for breath, chest heaving, ribs pressing against the delicious compression of the corset—blue and silver and black, holding him firm, like the tightest snuggling blanket, like the arms of a lover. He could see little flickers of flame from the corners of his eyes, his own hair free and alive, embers rising with his emotion—and only for Kris, who was the first to see—to accept the truth of Justin’s whole being—well, apart from Justin’s family, but he didn’t want to think of them _now_!—and Kris looked down at Justin with that same wonder he’d always shown, and had shared with Justin. As if Kris didn’t deserve love, _Justin’s_ love, as if love could be given as an award or taken away as punishment.

Tasting Kris, tasting himself, Justin sucked in a breath, two, three, to draw his lover’s scent deep, to feel the weight of air in his lungs, to feel the corset—his favorite—hold him close, contain him. He watched Kris take a long, hungry look all along the slim length of Justin’s body: lightly-muscled arms stretching behind his head, the clean lines of his clavicles, hard nipples peeking out from black trim, the narrowed rise and fall of his ribs under sturdy fabric and leather, a trim and defined waist, and finally the emphasized swell of hips, Kris’ free hand warm against wet skin, braced at one side to support his weight. Kris swallowed, lips parting, dark chocolate eyes darkening to near-black.

Justin’s flared in return, the faintest glow emanating—like rubies lit from below, in a shadowed room—and giggled as a line of poetry popped into his mind. Kris’ eyebrows rose, sharing the amusement. “What are you thinking of?”

“Coleridge,” Justin said. Rain began to spatter against the windows, softening outlines, blurring colors.

“A savage place! as holy and enchanted  
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted  
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!”

Kris’ face went through several interesting expressions before settling on pleased mischief. “For he on honeydew hath fed, right?”

Justin nodded. Kris met his gaze with bright and shining eyes, licked the lips that had inspired a thousand fantasies in teenage Justin’s bedroom. Kris’s smile was wicked, wide.

He moved back down to settle between Justin’s legs again, nosed the soft, delicate skin of Justin’s scrotum, and joined his tongue to where his fingers had worked so diligently earlier.

Justin howled. His heels dug into the sheets. Only Kris’ strong hands on his hips kept him from bucking; and only the intimate pleasure of silk knots and corset and _wanting_ to be held down, kept Justin from teleporting straight up into the ceiling—or to Texas—maybe all the way into the Realm of the Perilous Succubi—if he didn’t expire at once from sheer Kris Starr bliss.

“Please,” he said, or would have, if his brain could coordinate with his mouth— “Please, I need—”

Kris’ tongue thrust again, curled, delved. Justin brought one calf up to clamp around Kris’ lower back. “I’m so close,” and he was pulling against whispering silk restraints, yearning, whole body trying to press close, closer.

Kris raised his head. Even with empathy to lay his feeling clear, his eyes blazed with everything Justin would ever need to know. Sweat gleamed on his flushed face, his shoulders, his ribs rising and falling, his skin ruddy as a demon’s.

“Close your eyes with holy dread,” Kris whispered.

Justin’s brows drew together. “Yes?” But Kris just nodded, mouth curving upward while he sucked in another few breaths.

Eyes closing, Justin waited. Aflame. Burning with want, with love, with building ecstasy, interrupted.

A hot mouth closed around the head of his cock. He strangled a cry. The mouth lifted away: “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” Justin couldn’t be more ready. When he felt fingers at the cock ring, his entire body jolted.

Kris kissed the wet tip, circled it with his tongue, teased the frenulum. His hands held Justin down, branding his flesh, keeping him in place. He closed his mouth over Justin’s cock. He moved lower, taking more within, caressed the twitching, needing, desperate shaft with every inch down. Justin groaned into the night air. Rain-gentled colors danced across his vision. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his neck, soaked his hair, dripped into his eyes.

The cock ring clicked open. Justin shouted as his world turned white: super-heated transcendent rapture centered on his cock. And the mouth around it. That was still sucking hot and hard, dragging every last drop of come from him.

Jubilant renditions of “Sugar In Your Tea” and “Little Black Dress” chorused and mingled and created very odd visuals before finally playing themselves out in Justin’s mind. He found himself still in bed, as if he hadn’t just expired from a crescendo of orgasmic delight. Although, he noted, drowsy and content, his hands now lay across his belly, and the sheets beneath him were dry, cool, fresh. Friendly cotton rustled as he stretched. And he felt—palms and fingers confirmed—dry and clean instead of sweaty and gross.

The bed dipped next to him. He turned his head. Kris settled on one side, wrapped an arm across Justin’s waist—protective, warm, perfect. He projected, crisp and clear—they’d been practicing for upcoming concerts—satiation , love, contentment. Happiness. Here with Justin.

“And drunk the milk of Paradise,” Kris said then, and smirked until Justin had to beat him with a wholly willing pillow. And then kiss him. And kiss him again.


End file.
